


been waiting my whole life

by alkhale



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu doesn't realize how bad he has it, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Implied Oikawa/Hinata, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-sided pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rating May Change, Romance, Slight Drama, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, sakusa is done with atsumu, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkhale/pseuds/alkhale
Summary: “Oh,” Hinata says, like it isn’t the most ground-shattering, catastrophically destructive information Atsumu has ever heard. “I never told you guys?”Hinata turns then, in a full little circle, arms spread wide, showing off his naked chest, grinning from ear to ear. Normally Atsumu would enjoy the little show, but he feels a little broken all of a sudden, unable to process the words slipping sweetly from Hinata’s mouth as he laughs. He even teasingly pulls at the waistband of his shorts, showing a glimpse of equally bare skin.“I don’t have a soulmate.”Atsumu's world stops.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kageyama Tobio, Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu, Slight Sakusa Kiyoomi/Hinata Shouyou
Comments: 19
Kudos: 416





	been waiting my whole life

**Author's Note:**

> finally get to write for these two!!! i've had a few ideas floating around, but this one ended up wrestling it's way to the front. soulmate aus can be really taxing but i think they can be a little fun too :) 
> 
> thank you all so much for checking it out, hope you enjoy!
> 
> I do not own Haikyuu.

There’s only ever been one thing Miya Atsumu hates with a fair enough spite and passion.

He has ticks, just like anyone else. Shit that annoys him to no end, turn offs, personality traits he despises, actions that’ll rub him the wrong way, and things that might piss him off at the drop of hat—just the same, like everyone else.

The thing he hates the most though—it’s anything that might ever hold him back.

Atsumu  _ hates  _ to be held back. He’s not- _ not _ blessed, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t fight tooth and nail for everything he’s gotten and achieved either. That’s talent and skill and hard-work all wrapped up into a beautiful package, and he’d rather everyone appreciate the way they should, no questions asked.

In other words though, he’s got no time for things to stop him from his continuous climb to the top.

_ Higher and higher and higher. _

To a place only the best could reach. To somewhere beyond everything.

Osamu might get on his ass and warn him time and time again that his nasty attitude will drive people off, cause problems for him in the future—but they’re all just loads of shit anyway, when Osamu hardly cares about what people say himself.  _ “Yer such an ass.”  _ Atsumu doesn’t care what people think, doesn’t care if he rubs anyone the wrong way ‘cause there’ll be people who still look at him like he’s god’s greatest creation on earth anyway. Atsumu will keep doing what he’s doing regardless. 

He’s got places to go. He’s got ten fingers and a ball to plunge up into the air.

He knows he’s meant for places like that. He feels it in his bones. It’s only thanks to someone like Osamu—though he’d never say it to his stupid twin’s face—that he knows how deeply the drive is carved into him—the desire. 

It’s why he’ll tell off players slacking on his team, call people out for their shit, speak loudly and bluntly, though maybe a bit more suavely, to the girls he’s dating about why it won’t work out. Atsumu won’t stand for anything that’ll hold him back, even if he’s choosing to just rest—he wants to know he can  _ go _ , that he can  _ move. _

And when he says anything, he also means any _ one _

Because in posters all around them, in story books, in news articles or tending little posts on social media, the glaring reality of their world remains. A singular aspect known by everyone in existence.

Soulmates.

Everyone is born with one. Well, everyone _ -ish _ . Atsumu’s heard rumors here and there that there are people, rare, speckled individuals who don’t get stamped at birth with their perfect pair. These marks appear, sometime as early as ten or as late as your early twenties but no later than that by anyone’s recorded accounts. If it doesn’t show by twenty or twenty one, it’s about settled that you’re the odd one out.

The rare, rare odd one out.

Their parents explain it to them fair enough since they’re a classic textbook definition—ma and pa dated around, lived their lives, and they both happened to meet one fateful day almost shoving into each other on a train and suddenly—

_ “The rest was history,”  _ their mom says, slipping her fingers through their father’s.

The marks appear as words. They can be the first words uttered or something deeply,  _ deeply  _ personal, their mother explains. Something that can only be shared between the two of you. Their parents admit the world isn’t perfect, as they get older, they’ll see it for themselves. Sometimes it’s  _ not  _ as easy as just finding your soulmate and living happily ever after.

_ “Sometimes things get complicated,”  _ your father admits.  _ “I just hope for nothin’ but happiness for you two though.” _

Atsumu and Osamu don’t really put much stock into it. Soulmates don’t seem to have anything to do with their interests as kids or anything to do with volleyball, so they don’t think much of it.  _ Reasonable.  _ Their father laughs, tells them they’ll grow to put a little more care into the thought, that there’s something nice about the whole thing if they ignore the media or the saturated, sugary stories. Atsumu thinks that’s a load of bull in its own right though since his parents are happy as can be, and he knows they’d never want to go back.

(Soulmates done right, Atsumu supposes, when he sees them laughing, their family complete, not perfect, but complete. He can live with that.)

Sometimes his thoughts stray to it, he’ll admit that much. He and Osamu would stop, fingers pausing over the remote as they wait for the next volleyball game to show as the commercial shows too fated soulmates runnin’ desperately for each other till they just manage to make it past the train doors, flying into each other’s arms.

_ “Ya think it actually works like that?”  _ Osamu asks.  _ “All that pomp and circumstance?” _

_ “Guess what’s the point if it’s not?”  _ Atsumu says. Who wouldn’t want some dramatic, showy thing for something that was supposed to last a lifetime? People’d be awful upset if they just met their soulmate in class or something like that.  _ “Who wants it to be borin’?” _

Osamu snorts, not completely convinced. Then again, his twin brother’s never had as much of a heart for theatrics and dramatics the same way Atsumu sort of thrives off the limelight. It’s what balances them out so well.

Atsumu figures if he’s got to have a soulmate,  _ has  _ to have one—they ought to live up to a few of his standards, at least. They better be on his level, for one, better be good at whatever it is they want to do—and they absolutely, will  _ not  _ hold him back.

They’re simple enough requests. How hard can that be? 

(Your soulmate is supposed to be your perfect other half, after all.)

He and Osamu get theirs both around the same time. 

Middle school. 

Osamu’s are neat, tiny little words instamped on the inside of his upper bicep, hardly even noticeable and unassuming. Atsumu’s are just as neat, but they’re bold, even strokes of lines that curve around his skin. They stand out with purpose, and he gets the distinct sense it’s because his supposed soulmate wants them to know. Wants  _ him  _ to know.

The two of them rip off their shirts and circle around each other, poking and prodding and staring at mirrors and then the similar images of themselves before glancing back to their words.

“‘s nothin’ special,” Atsumu says.

“Yeah,” Osamu agrees.

“Thought it was supposed to be bigger than this,” Atsumu says.

“Yeah,” Osamu agrees.

“...wanna go play?”

“...Yeah.”

Osamu doesn’t think much of them, the way he never thinks much of anything unless it’s food or volleyball—but time and time again Atsumu ends up drifting back to the letters, occasionally scratching his neatly filed nails along it, watching a thin red line drag across his skin. It’s just out of curiosity, that’s all. He just pokes around, gives it a glance every now and then.

_ Your soulmate. _

Really, it’s nothing special at the end of the day.

_ “You’re amazing.” _

‘Cause even when the neat little lines appear along the curve of his wrist, encircling it like a bracelet— _ a shackle _ —and the letters become clear, Atsumu’s still certain of only one thing.

No one, not even his future soulmate, will ever hold him back.

There’s a sort of roundabout taboo that goes around when it comes to dating people who aren’t your soulmate. 

Back in the old days it’s practically sacreligious—that person belongs to someone else,  _ you  _ belong to someone else, what do you think you’re doing? They read stories about it all the time in history: of star-crossed lovers or jealous shoguns and emperors stealing people away and poor, pitiful little heroes who commit seppuku over the loss of their other half. Atsumu remembers sticking his tongue out while Osamu sleeps, half-listening to their sad little stories. If you want something go for it—if you’re not brave enough to hold on, then maybe it really ain’t yours to have.

In this modern day and age though, things work… a little differently.

The reality is that the statistics of meeting your soulmate are all skewed. What are the odds you’re lucky enough to  _ have  _ a soulmate within this vicinity and come across them within your lifetime? What if there’s someone on the complete opposite side of the world meant to be yours and you never even meet? There’s an entire other faction though that argues that your soulmate wouldn’t be that person, they’d be someone within your reach because you’re  _ meant _ to meet.

(Problem is no one really knows, and if no one can decide, then Atsumu figures he doesn’t really care.)

Some people stick to the traditional method. They wait it out and hope like the lovesick romantics they are for their chance at happiness. Atsumu’s got a bit of a bone to pick with those people, but what’s the point?  _ Do whatever the hell ya want.  _ Others have adopted a better reality. Most people in their youth and even in their adulthood still date around, they still meet different people and even try to make things work with people who  _ aren’t  _ their soulmates.

In their youth it’s the easiest. There’s no shortage of pretty girls who like to play a little coy, loudly voicing their curiosities about Atsumu or Osamu’s marks, playful sighs of envy when they know it doesn’t match their own.

Atsumu takes his pick, he dates around, he has fun, all the way up into high school and hardly ever has a problem with it. It almost becomes too easy to forget soulmates are even a  _ thing  _ unless someone traces his, speaks the words out loud, and makes Atsumu feel a strange twist in the pit of his gut he usually chooses to ignore.

_ “You’re amazing.” _

Of course he is. Was his soulmate slow or somethin’?

“Yer gonna just keep datin’ people like that?” Osamu said once, curling his lip in disgust as usual at his brother as he lounges half off their shared bunkbed, feet kicked up and texting mindlessly at his phone. “Ya really got time?”

“Shut yer trap, ya just don’t get any.”

Osamu promptly hauled his brother off the bed, throwing the two of them into another all-out scuffle until their mother finally broke them apart with a slipper to each face.

Only on an offhand beat has a girl ever broken up with him because she  _ found her soulmate _ —a rare moment Atsumu actually remembers with perfect clarity because she’d been one of the better ones, patient and support with his volleyball, striving for her own greatness. She’d come to him, sitting outside the clubroom with a drink waiting for him before she quietly said—

“I found my soulmate,” Atsumu remembers pausing, looking at her in faint surprise. She traced the words on her ankle, drifting a finger over it as though it were something precious. “I… I hardly even know her, you know? It’s crazy. We just bumped into each other at the mall and kinda  _ knew _ . She lives a little bit away but…”

She laughed then. Atsumu watched her, snarky comments aside, openly listening—listening, because maybe there was something to this whole thing he was a bit curious about himself.

“Sounds so dumb,” she muttered. “But I kinda wanna give it a go, ya know? I can’t… can’t explain it, I just saw her and I… I want to  _ try  _ to get to know her a bit. Maybe see how it is.”

Her eyes were warm.

“Maybe see if we can make it work.”

She’d looked at Atsumu, asking if that was alright with him. 

A part of him had wanted to laugh. He thought about it—the things he could say. He could persuade her and fill her up with doubts about the whole thing—she’d probably half-listen. But instead the only words that had managed to come out of his mouth were a handful of honest sures, thank yous, and good lucks.

“Thanks, Atsumu,” she said, holding his hand. They parted on entirely good, neutral terms. “I hope it works out for you too.”

_ For you too. _

Of course it would.

Atsumu remembers that moment as just any other break-up amongst the many, and he doesn’t dwell any longer on it aside from the fact that it lingers, just a bit, sometimes. Other than that, Atsumu lives his life. He works his way with Osamu into the powerhouse their team is—they become easy favorites for nationals even only in their first year, he gets invited to the National All Youth camp—life goes  _ right  _ and Atsumu is only going to keep reaching higher and higher.

* * *

And then Atsumu meets  _ him _ .

(Someone who jumps—jumps higher than anything he’s ever seen, as though reaching right for the sun.)

* * *

It’s at Nationals that they meet.

The guy’s hardly 162 centimeters—barely 163 if Atsumu is being generous, and most of those have to go to his hair. Obnoxiously orange, fluffy and sticking out in tufts like some god forsaken tangerine. Osamu gets a bit of a kick out of it beside him.  _ “Ya think it’s natural?” _ His hair is probably the only thing Atsumu would’ve given him a second glance for if not for the familiar black uniform and his position right beside one Kageyama Tobio who’d also participated in the youth camp right alongside Atsumu.  _ Goody-two-shoes Tobio. _

The general word is it’s a bit of a fluke that this  _ Karasuno  _ managed to claw their way into a small spot on the national stage here in Tokyo where Inarizaki and the like are veteran regulars. Somehow they managed to just wrestle out the right from the usual participants—Shiratorizawa. Atsumu can admit he can see where some of it might be credited to Kageyama, stupidly talented setter that he is—but one man can’t make a team. As a setter Atsumu knows this well, and Atsumu needs people to pull their weight if they want to climb.

(And oh, they’re gonna  _ climb. _ )

“Ya think ol’ Ushiwaka finally slipped up?” Osamu says beside him. Atsumu leans up against the guard railing, lazily tracking the progress of the game below him with his eyes. “Too bad we won’t be able ta make ‘em cry this year.”

“Probably,” Atsumu says loudly, already bored with what he’s finding. Normal players.  _ Mediocre.  _ Kageyama’s probably the best person on their team. He hasn’t even seen their libero in action yet. Some solid receives, some solid spikes, but that’s all it is—nothing  _ amazing.  _ “Doesn’t mean ya get to slack off thou—”

And then the damn orange shrimp’s feet touch the ground, so quick, so light it seems like the entire court surges right up to meet him and then he—

_ Flies. _

His fingertips reach, higher and higher, sailing over the top of the net. The height that should’ve left him behind, left him struggling at the bottom is weightless, nothing as he soars, up— _ up  _ like he’s climbing for something even higher than this moment. And then his hand comes down, like the ball’s always been waiting for him, slamming into the other court.

And Atsumu watches.

(Higher and higher and higher.)

The shrimp coasts down, feet landing evenly on the floor. There’s a ruckus of roars from his team but his eyes are trained right ahead, watching the ball to the last moment—they kinda burn, gleaming before he blinks and the tangerine turns and grins, loud and dumb looking while Kageyama beside him says something.

“Yikes,” Osamu says, trying to sound nonchalant, but a sort of awe and wonder still leak into his tone. “What a hop.”

The little guy practically  _ flew  _ for all he was worth.

Atsumu keeps watching, but the sudden surge of surprised excitement tampers down—the guy’s got basic receives, a basic serve—he’s nowhere near their level aside from that freaky quick. They’ll be a walk in the park tomorrow if that’s the case.

For some reason the words on his wrist burn a little hotter, an itch against his skin that Atsumu ignores.

(It’s nothing, so what if you can jump a little high?)

Jumping just means eventually you gotta come back down.

* * *

But the little shit  _ doesn’t  _ come down.

He never does.

Instead he keeps jumping—stupidly,  _ stupidly  _ high. He forces Atsumu and Osamu to their absolute best, to their all and more. He forces his entire  _ team  _ alongside his own to their very best, the Crows and Foxes battling it out for every single point, desperate to rip it into their own fingers. His knees hardly ever shake, his eyes never stop burning—he never stops  _ smiling  _ and it gets somewhere deep under Atsumu’s skin, forces his eyes to find him across the net, over and over again—

Because this guy—this  _ guy _ , this  _ Hinata Shoyo,  _ he  _ flies. _

“Another!” his hand raises up, his feet lift him off the ground. Kageyama is at his beck and call, the two of them rushing forward with their team right at their heels. “Another one! Toss me another!”

The smile never leaves the shrimp’s face—the  _ hunger.  _ Atsumu runs, his hands move, he sets the best balls he’s ever set in his god damn life. Osamu rushes, striking, matching his tune in perfect harmony—they’re  _ perfection _ , ever moment and movement and not once do those shining eyes across the court quake or shatter, no matter how badly Atsumu wonders if they will. The burn  _ brighter _ and he jumps  _ higher _ and Atsumu—

Atsumu realizes he goes right along with it. He climbs, higher and higher, anything to stomp that freak quick and that team down, to get the ground caving underneath shrimpy’s feet—

“ _ Did you see that?”  _ his voice rebounds across the entire court. The damn tangerine is laughing, laughing, like he's having the best day of his life.  _ “Toss me another one! _ ”

And for a moment, a fluttering glimpse—Atsumu thinks he sees it. His chest burns, his lungs heave, everything breath wrestles out of him as his fingers move and he sets the ball and the next after that and wills this game to never end.

(Something higher than anything else.)

It’s exactly why at the bitter end of it, when the whistle blows and the crowd cheers and the stamping and ruckus cools, that Atsumu finds himself pointing right at Hinata Shoyo and saying:

“One day I’m gonna set for you.”

(Because he’ll swear on any god and by any means, Atsumu will make sure it happens.)

He wants to see how high he can make Hinata jump for  _ him. _

( _ How high can I bring us? _ )

* * *

When Hinata finally comes crashing down to the ground, he feels no satisfaction.

There’s a bit of bitterness there, a sneaking desire to have seen him climb, higher and higher to see how far he could reach—but it makes sense to Atsumu. Perfect clarity when they have to usher him off, looking frantic and worried while he shakes his head—it took all these monsters to bring one tiny little crow down back to the earth.

All Atsumu can think about instead is  _ next year _ —next year, and the times after that, because he knows someone like this, someone like Hinata will probably never slip out of volleyball’s clutches, not when he runs right into its embrace the way Atsumu does, the way they all do some way or another. He can’t wait for next year. Can’t wait to do it again.

(Can’t wait to see him fly.)

“Wonder what his soulmate is like.”

Osamu’s words feel like a rigid slap to Atsumu’s face. He looks at his brother with something akin to disgust as the board the bus back home. Not once throughout this entire mess has Atsumu thought about soulmates. Why the hell would he when all he’s thinking about is  _ volleyball _ . What the hell did soulmates matter on the court?

“The hell does that matter?” Atsumu says, feeling the words on his wrist burn a little more like that itch it always gets. He ignores it. “Ya wishin’ it was you?”

“Sure,” Osamu says lazily. Atsumu scowls at him. “Aren’t ya just curious? Guys like that… ya always wonder who’s on the other half of it.”

Atsumu doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t want to. Sure, it’s a fine enough question— _ yeah _ , he can see what Samu means by the whole thing, but it doesn’t mean Atsumu’s about to get his high from that game ruined by thoughts of soulmates and the like.

(Even if his eyes might’ve skirted over Hinata’s skin, looking at his bare wrists, up his bare arms and legs and not seeing a single thing—probably just somewhere hidden like most.)

“Gotta be someone into volleyball, I guess,” Osamu continues, leaning back against the bus cushion. “Someone who looks like they could marry it like you, Tsumu.”

Atsumu snorts but he doesn’t refute his brother’s words this time either. He kind of ruminates over it a bit, rolling around in his head. Yeah, that makes sense. It ought to be something like that. Someone who likes volleyball just like them.

“Then,” Rinatarou says suddenly, on the chair beside them next to an already snoozing Aran. He doesn’t even look up once from his phone, simply tuning in to the conversation, “maybe his setter?”

The thought sends an ill twist right to Atsumu’s gut, one that makes him scowl at the idea, shaking his head. Osamu mulls it over but doesn’t look quite convinced either. “Naw, no way. Too convenient.”

Atsumu’s even seen Kageyama’s—a single word inked into the back of his shoulder. He doesn’t remember what it says, but all he knows is that it’s got to have nothing to do with Hinata Shoyo. None at all. Zilch.

_ Right? _

“What does it even matter?” Atsumu says loudly, kicking his legs out in front of him. Kita shoots him a calm, remindanding look and he tucks his legs back behind the seat. “Who cares?”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it ya kill joy.”

“I feel bad for whoever Atsumu’s soulmate is.”

“Me too.”

“Aw, shut yer traps!”

* * *

And, just like the prophetic god he is—it all really does fall right back into Atsumu’s lap, just like he thought, just like he wanted, years later.

Hinata Shoyo aces the MSBY Black Jackals’ try out and secures a spot right beside all of them on that grand stage, only ready to climb higher and higher right next to Atsumu.

And honestly, Atsumu can’t  _ wait _ .

* * *

_ “You’re amazing.” _

* * *

“Were you two soulmates?”

_ The  _ word makes Atsumu pause briefly, almost filing his nail a little too close to the bed. He blinks, once, twice, double-checking his fingers before trying to remain the image of picture-perfect cool as he secretly listens in on the conversation happening to his right.

The MSBY Jackals’ training gym is bright lit and filled with the usual sounds of work, of practice and volleyball—sounds Atsumu could fall asleep to at night. The evening glow outside is starting to lower down into something dark, forcing the bright flood lights on at the end of the gymnasium.

Barnes and Tomas stand at the end of the court line, getting things prepped for the evening practice. Bokuto is off to the other side of the court, helping the ball-gatherer push the carts, chatting amiably away. Atsumu stands a little ways from the court, his jacket snug as he files down his nails for a final time before the session begins and to his left are Hinata and Sakusa, stretching out into a nice little corner because Hinata Shoyo is the only one who dares—aside from Bokuto’s abrasiveness—to breach Sakusa’s personal bubble and doesn’t receive and repercussions for it either.

“We got lucky,” Barnes says with a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Both of us were pretty prepared to go our whole lives without meeting them. The funny thing is that when we met and started going out, we didn’t even realize we were!”

Atsumu keeps quiet. The word floats around again in his head, sort of rattling around and opening up a pocket of memories he hadn’t thought about for quite some time.  _ Thoughts  _ he hasn’t thought about in some time.  _ Soulmates.  _ His eyes drop down to his stamped, inked wrist.

The topic hasn’t quite come up amongst his teammates before, Atsumu realizes suddenly. It never seemed important while they were all chattering away about volleyball or something else. He’s never asked any of them about their stances on the whole thing or their experiences either.

Atsumu goes a bit stiff. He ignores it, playing it off as nothing even though his eyes dart once to his left and then forward again and then back to the left.

Hinata grins, saying something. Sakusa seems to barely respond, pressed forward in the freakish stretch of his that rolls out his equally freakishly flexible wrists while Hinata tries to emulate him, legs stretched ridiculously wide because Hinata’s flexibility himself is no joke compared to the rest of them. 

Atsumu looks at his wrist. He feels oddly…  _ unsatisfied.  _ Not over not meeting his soulmate—he’s this far into the game and hasn’t seen a hair of them and honestly? He isn’t complaining.

_ Soulmates. _

“You’re the only one dumb enough not to realize his own soulmate is right in front of him,” Inunaki teases, tossing his jacket to the side. 

“Don’t remind me! Both of us will never live it down.”

“That’s so nice though!” Hinata pipes up. Atsumu almost flinches. He looks over. “A ton of people go without ever meeting theirs, you know? Congratulations!”

“Thanks, Shoyo!”

“What if you meet them and they’re the absolute worst,” Sakusa mutters, looking disturbed by the thought. “No hygiene, no manners…”

“But Omi-san, I’m sure if they’re supposed to be your soulmate, they’ll be just right in their own way!”

Sakusa doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced. Atsumu finds his way into the conversation, plopping down smoothly beside Hinata who beams at his arrival. “Yeah, Omi-Omi, they gotta be  _ just  _ perfect fer ya, don’t they?”

Sakusa doesn’t deign him with an answer, slipping calmly forward to stretch out his lower back as well. Hinata laughs well-naturedly beside them, turning to Atsumu with a familiarly bright grin. Atsumu’s started to become  _ real  _ familiar with that grin, that smile and the energy it kind of…  _ infects  _ people with. He’s thinkin’ he might be on the verge of addiction. “Whatever the case, I hope it all works out for everyone!”

“You always say that,” Sakusa says from the floor, using his towel to separate himself from the floorboards. Hinata continues to grin and Atsumu tries to ignore the way he’s feeling a little more in-tune with the conversation now, a little more…  _ curious _ . 

He tries not to think about how he can’t help but notice the completely blank expanse of Hinata’s tanned, toned legs. The way he’s spent  _ one _ too many glances scouring each available expanse of skin already. It’s now though that Atsumu really starts to  _ look _ , look and see beyond casual scrapes and bruises and small scars from rough tumbles and falls or of stories Atsumu hasn’t even heard yet but wants too, all of them.

Hinata’s legs are bare of any mark. His arms too—from his fingertips to his shoulders, as far as Atsumu can see under his jersey. Not a single speck of ink. He even knows where  _ Sakusa’s  _ is, hidden somewhere small and neat on the back of his neck.

But Hinata’s neck is bare. Behind his ears, the smooth, sort of distracting stretch of his collarbone and even around his hips when Atsumu watches the way his shirt floats or rides up sometimes during practice.  _ Nothing.  _ It’s got to be somewhere else, somewhere a little more private—maybe a bit more… risque. Hinata’s never once said a single  _ thing  _ about soulmates for as long as Atsumu’s known him, and before, when that was more of a blessing for Atsumu, to not have to remember that tiny little hindrance in life, he didn’t really care.

(And it’s not that he cares  _ now _ . He’s just curious. That’s all, curious.)

It’s  _ really  _ not Atsumu’s fault that lately he’s started to think about it a little more, a little harder. He’s started to think about  _ Hinata  _ in conjunction with the thought of soulmates. 

_ “I wonder who his soulmate is?”  _ Samu’s stupid words from all those years ago start ringing again in Atsumu’s head and he does his damned best to ignore them. Sure, he  _ thinks  _ about, just only recently, and just only when he’s bored and Hinata happens to be there too. Atsumu just kind of plays with the idea—some of the other guys have done it too, Tomas and Meian, speculating over the kind of person that’s got to complete someone like Hinata Shoyo.

_ Who gets to make you complete? _

Hinata’s soulmate is probably someone just as spritely as him—the kind of person who could up and leave everything behind to go to another country, knowing little to nothing just to hone their passion, to become better. Atsumu would do something like that if he needed too. Or maybe it’s someone who’s the complete opposite—someone who’d stay rooted and make sure there’s a place for Hinata when he comes back and you know, Atsumu’s pretty sure he could easily do that as well—

Does it matter? No, of course it doesn’t. Why’s he getting so worked up about this whole thing in the first place? Why’s he so damn curious?

_ I just want to know, that’s all.  _ Atsumu almost starts nodding his head. He’s just genuinely curious over learning more about his dear little teammate, that’s all. His precious wing spiker—it’s a perfectly reasonable curiosity. What if this mysterious soulmate of Hinata’s is a total fucking drab? What if they’re a piece of shit like Omi says? What if all that puts a hitch into Hinata’s climb to the top and to the heights Atsumu wants to  _ see  _ him reach, wants to be right behind him, right beside him when he climbs.

When he  _ flies _ .

Atsumu just wants to know who’s the lucky gal or guy that gets to be there—that gets a spot by right to see it all without even having to lift a finger.

(Just wants to know who gets to see that bit of Hinata, the part that Atsumu  _ works  _ for and give them a piece of his mind—)

“—sumu-san?”

Atsumu blinks, once, twice, and then he promptly swings his head sideways. Hinata looks at him with round eyes, smiling a little sheepishly while beside him Sakusa looks completely done with Atsumu’s shit.

“I told you,” Sakusa says, dull and unimpressed. “He lives in his own world. Don’t even try with people like him.”

“Something on your mind, Atsumu-san?” Hinata says easily, eyes wide and curious.

Atsumu balks.

“Alright guys, let’s get this practice started!”

“Just thinkin’ about how great my tosses are going to be today,” Atsumu says brightly. Hinata grins. “Ya up to it, Shoyo-kun?”

“You bet!”

_ Barnes.  _ Atsumu thinks, easily throwing Hintata a cocky smirk to completely cover up any and all momentary fear of being caught like a deer in headlights. He even offers a hand to Hinata, clasping his warm fingers in his as he helps haul Hinata up to his feet and Sakusa wordlessly stands, still looking unimpressed.  _ I owe ya one.  _

That’s all Atsumu needs—to toss the ball and know  _ he’s  _ the one tossing it to Hinata. That at the end of the day, anyone could claim to have a right to Hinata’s heart, but they sure as hell don’t have a place on this court. He doesn’t need to see Hinata’s mark or know anything about his soulmate. Hinata might not even ever meet them.

Here on this court, Atsumu’s the one who gets Hinata, and for someone like Hinata who’s everything is volleyball—that’s a pretty damn good deal. 

(But if there’s anything Atsumu’s ever been, it’s  _ greedy. _ )

* * *

“What does your mark look like Shoyo?”

Atsumu almost drops his bag onto his feet. He almost smacks his head against the locker in his haste to stand up straight too, whipping his head around his shoulder to gape at Bokuto in disbelief. Beside Atsumu, Sakusa offers him a look of complete and utter disgust, glaring over the top of his mask with eyes that ought to make Atsumu feel lower than scum, but he’s been made tough as nails growin’ up with a twin and little Omi-kun’s words hardly hurt.

Atsumu quickly tries to wrap his head around what Bokuto’s just asked in the middle of the locker room, the collection of Jackals around them all in various states of undress—save for Sakusa who’s already finished changing, quick and efficient, and Inunaki who’s at least got all his clothes on. Atsumu himself is still shirtless and there Bokuto stands, just as shirtless, muscles rippling with his hands on his hips as he stands beside an  _ equally  _ shirtless Hinata.

_ What does Shoyo’s mark look like? _

The question that’s been rattling Atsumu’s brain— _ not _ —leaving him staring with narrowed eyes up at his ceiling at night as he absently scratches the words on the inside of his wrist till they’re almost a bit red.

Atsumu’s tried to picture it a dozen times, but it’s always fallen flat. Is it something stupid and dumb, like  _ “wow, you jump high!”  _ or  _ “you’re shorter than I thought”  _ something that doesn’t fit Hinata at all? Or is it something better than that—something  _ right _ , something that fits the warmth of Hinata’s skin, the fresh scent that follows and the way he looks, standing there on the court, close enough for Atsumu’s wandering hands to finally wonder what it’d feel like to turn his head or slide around his waist—

_ What does Shoyo Hinata’s words say? _

(Who is Hinata’s other half—)

Atsumu pinches the skin of his wrist, tight and quick.

And Bokuto Koutarou has just asked the forbidden question. 

Hinata blinks, completely unbothered, holding his jersey in his hands. “My mark? For my soulmate?”

“Yeah!” Bokuto says. “I never thought about it before—we always change together but I’ve never even seen it. Not even in the shower! Did I just not look right?”

“You shouldn’t even be looking at him in the shower like that,” Sakusa mutters under his breath, and Atsumu says nothing because he’s surely  _ not  _ guilty of doing the exact same thing. 

“Bokuto, that’s not just something you  _ ask  _ people,” Inunaki scolds. “That kind of stuff is private.”

“That’s true,” Meian admits, but he glances Hinata’s way despite it. “Some people can be offended by stuff like that.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu agrees lazily, hiding the hopeful pressure in his voice, trying not to betray his intentions with his eyes. “What’re ya thinkin’?”

Sakusa looks at him in disgust. Atsumu throws him a quick finger, making a slicing motion with his throat. 

“I’m just curious!” Bokuto whines. Atsumu suddenly thanks every saving grace that Bokuto Koutarou exists. He’ll treat the spiker out to something good. He will, he promises. “Come on, show me?”

“Hinata,” Inunaki says. “You don’t have too if you want. That’s highly inappropriate—”

“I don’t mind at all!”

Atsumu feels his heart lunge into his throat. An itch starts again at his wrist, an urge to move his fingers Atsumu denies. He keeps a lazy grin curled over his lips, cocky almost and brows raised half-mast in interest, but his heart thunders, a little louder, eyes searching the expanse of Hinata’s skin almost obsessively.

Hinata grins, lowering his shirt. Atsumu sees the smooth expanse of muscle across his back, the toned, tanned skin from the hard work in the sun—the way Hinata’s shoulders are still smaller than his, down to the smooth arch of his back, the way his hips—

“I’d totally show you, Bokuto-senpai,” Hinata says warmly, brows creased almost sheepishly. “But I don’t have one!”

The entire locker room falls dead silent.

A can of salonpas rolls onto the floor off the bench. Only Sakusa stays unmoved by his locker, absently running a finger down the zipper of his bag.

The world around Atsumu slows.

Bokuto’s mouth makes a little  _ o _ in surprise, blinking once, twice, and then repeatedly at Hinata. He grabs him suddenly by the shoulders, eyes jumping up and down as though trying to confirm it himself and Hinata laughs, lightly thumping a fist against Bokuto’s chest. “I promise, I’m not lying!”

“You,” Inunaki says, he quickly tries to wipe the surprise from his voice. “Hinata, you don’t have one?”

Hinata Shoyo doesn’t—

“Oh,” Hinata says, like it isn’t the most ground-shattering, catastrophically destructive information Atsumu has ever heard. “I never told you guys?”

Hinata turns then, in a full little circle, arms spread wide, grinning from ear to ear. Normally Atsumu would enjoy the little show, but he feels a little broken all of a sudden, unable to process the words slipping sweetly from Hinata’s mouth as he laughs. He even teasingly pulls at the waistband of his shorts, showing a glimpse of equally bare skin.

“I don’t have a soulmate.”

Hinata shows them his arms, his wrists, his hands where many people’s words often are. “We thought I might be a late bloomer at first, but it never came. You’ve heard, right? The latest to ever show was twenty or something like that… but I think somewhere around high school I kinda just  _ knew _ .”

Hinata grins. He grins like it’s never once been a problem, like the thought has never once slowed him down or kept his feet planted to the ground. The one thing everyone is promised from birth—the quiet, either shackling or reassuring thought that there’s  _ someone  _ out there. Someone with a mark to match yours, someone who’s meant to be your other half whether you like it or not—

And Hinata doesn’t have one.

“I was born without one,” Hinata says. He looks sheepish, filling the silent locker room with laughter as he rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, I’ve just been so used to it… is that weird?”

“Of course not!” Bokuto blurts, loud and fierce. “You don’t have anything to even say sorry for—it’s not weird at all!”

“Thanks, Bokuto-senpai!”

“I’ve known someone without one before,” Meian adds. “It’s uncommon but it’s not rare, these days I think. Not like everyone chooses to be with their soulmate anyway.”

“Right?” Inunaki adds quickly. Tomas nods. “It’s always just a second thought or something like that.”

Atsumu stands there by his locker. He thinks, finally letting Hinata’s words sink into his head. He looks absently at his own wrist, at the words that’ve been stuck onto his skin since middle school, the promising words that’ve always followed him…

He looks at Hinata, watching him grin, shrugging his shirt on as Bokuto chatters on about something else and—

Everything Atsumu has ever known lights itself on fire, and he’s suddenly bitter that Hinata doesn’t even know he’s the one who struck the match.

Hinata Shoyo doesn’t have a soulmate.

Huh.

_ Huh? _

_ HAH? _

The water bottle in Atsumu’s locker finally rolls out of his bag. It comes crashing down, right onto his foot, and Atsumu promptly lets out a string of furious, slurred curses hardly any of his teammates can catch in his rapid Kansai dialect. Bokuto laughing while Hinata quickly asks if he’s alright and needs help and—

Sakusa Kiyoomi, once again, gives Atsumu a look of pure, and utter disgust, like one would a bug.

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally only going to post this as a one-shot, but it ended up longer than I expected so I broke it up into two chapters, but I might go back and make it one, hahaha, we'll see!
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope it was fun!


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